


A Tainted Life

by Skinnley



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alistair losing his pants, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, F/M, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Loss of Control, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Virginity, Naked Cuddling, Romance, Unplanned Pregnancy, Warden Alistair, some AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 04:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17358884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skinnley/pseuds/Skinnley
Summary: Once she was a daughter, a sister, one of two heirs to the second most important family of Ferelden. Only royalty reigned higher than her family name and she was adept in every single step of being a noble daughter. She knew when to courtesy, when to smile, when to talk, how to dance at balls, she was in expert in the life of court she was born into.But when that is all taken away?She adapts.





	A Tainted Life

**Author's Note:**

> Is anyone else still stuck in Origins? I really just can't fathom never seeing my warden again in game, so here I am. This dragon age universe is a bit alternative universe but not by much.

 

The first time Alistair saw her was through the sliver of an opening between the flaps of his tent, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and mind just barely clinging to the edge of consciousness. It was late, night edging on the brink of early morning, the nearly black sky slowly lightening into a deep blue. A burgundy cloak covered her form, the hood concealing her face from view until she turned, the blazing fire highlighting her features, the delicateness of her appearance startling him from his near state of sleep.

She was all femininity, high cheekbones, a rounded face, a slender nose; eyes the color of jade, or...sea foam? He couldn’t quite decide, somewhere in the middle, perhaps, and those lashes. Alistair remembered when Eamon had first married Isolde, the little jar of charcoal and oil she would carefully apply to each and one of her pale lashes in an attempt to thicken and darken them. He had been playing hide and seek and decided, rather unintelligently, to hide within the arlessa’s armoire. This woman's’ were different, though, naturally thick, dark, farming her large eyes and making them look nearly akin to that of a doe and twice as innocent.

_A doe about to be slaughtered._

Normally his thoughts were not nearly so easily negative, nor was he the sexist type, he had seen his fair share of women kicking ass and with far greater skill than their male comrades. This woman, this girl, however, seemed so impossibly young and naive…How could Duncan thrust her into this life, a war that was nearly bursting at the seems? How could he bring her head first into an order of which half of all recruits died before they even could officially be considered a true member of the order? Not once had Alistair second guessed Duncan, he practically worshiped the ground the man he walked on. He had saved Alistair from a life of servitude to a corrupt order and instead put him into their own, but it felt so incredibly wrong to thrust her into all this.

 The commander in question placed a large hand on the girl's slender shoulder, his hushed tone something Alistair could not quite make out before he was abruptly gone, leaving her in front of the roaring fire. She slid her hood down, uncovering her deep auburn toned hair, pinned with seeming haste but still somehow enchanting. Women were not very prominent in the camp and even in less so in the Grey Wardens; besides a few paintings, he had seen not even seen one personally. He knew for certain she was the recruit Duncan had mentioned in his letters; for one, she was well, a she _,_ and two, why else would Duncan bring her into their personal little corner of Ostagar?

Daveth, the sly little bugger, crept towards her, the typical cocky grin plastered about his rugged features far more prominent than even the bright rouges the prostitutes of Denerim wore. He was a definite purse cutter, from his slow careful movements to the very way he looked at you; the man would size you up, eyes wandering over the potential source of his thievery for a weak spot. It reminded Alistair a great deal of a hawk, wings spread why and hunting anything potentially weak.

“I heard the little elven servants were drawing up a bath for you, I just wanted to offer my services should you need..” Daveth spoke in a purring tone, the flirtation in his voice heavy, “..Perhaps someone to wash those lovely curves nestled within your leggings for you?” His hand was moving toward, ready to reach within her cloak for some hidden pocket. Alistair was readying himself to leap from his tent when the young woman’s slender fingers quickly twisted Daveth’s wrist into an uncomfortable and sickening angle. The pocket picker screeched, pulling his hand free and staring at the girl before him with bulging eyes.

“FIrst, go find a healer, lest your wrist sets at an unnatural angle, and two, fuck off.” She spoke in a monotone voice, devoid of emotion or even irritation. Daveth scurried off, no doubt seeking out poor Wynne to fix his foolish mistake. Alistair, on the other hand, quickly regretted his innocent doe comparison; though, he did have to hold back a rather massive chuckle threatening to implode from his lips.

...

  
The water was hot, steam rising steadily and clouding the small tent; Ellaina sunk in, ignoring the sting against her flesh and instead reveling in the way the warmth chased away the bitter cold of Ferelden autumn that seeped into her bones. Dipping her head completely back, she sunk in, fingers rising to carefully pluck free each and every golden clip that secured the heavy mass of wavy auburn hair against her skull. When each little bar was secured in the safety of her left palm, she hugged her cupped fist against her chest. A shaky intake of breath followed, lips trembling as she fought the internal battle of to sob or to not, to be strong or to break. It was a battle far more difficult than anything she had ever been up against. No amount of countless training for potential queenhood or of being teryna, of walking and talking carefully through court, of endless dance classes, none of it could prepare her for this. For the pain that ravaged at her heart, that brought about a rigid tightness of mourning in her abdomen. Nothing felt right, nothing felt good or okay, nothing was as it should be and she absolutely hated it.

_Oren’s little broken body, Oriana’s silk nightgown soaked in blood, her Father clutching his side and laying in his own hot crimson blood, her Mother’s tear-streaked face and the way her lips parted for the very last time to wish her only daughter goodbye, Ser Gilmore’s lips pressed against hers before he turned away, sacrificing his life for her family, Nan dead on the kitchen floor._

  
At what point had her parents met their last second? Was it when her Duncan ducked through the foresty, his hand dragging her away when she turned, watching her home, a wreckage of flames? Was it later, when she sat beneath the stars, staring into the heart of a campfire? Had Howe kept them alive, wanting to save their deaths to be done by his very own hand? Her stomach retched at the thought.

Sinking back further into the water, she leaned back until she was completely submerged, opening her mouth and screaming beneath the surface. Water bubbled up from her mouth and when she emerged she prayed to the Maker, to whoever the hell might be out there, no one heard her. Elleina’s tears melted with water making them unrecognizable, but the tremor in her fingers bound tightly around those golden pins was prominent.

....

Alistair shoveled a spoonful of bland porridge into his mouth, the taste something he was well accustomed to, though he did on occasion yearn for a well-seasoned chicken, or perhaps a plate of Orlesian cheeses, He was typically the first of his brothers in arm to rise, enjoying the quietness of early morning in the immense camp of Ostagar. Sure, back in the Chantry he absolutely loathed the silence, but that was a different setting and time, on he did not miss in the slightest. Here, he took joy in his solace, in the fact that he was doing something, being someone, not a mindless puppet in heavy metal.

A redheaded elf approached him, squirrely and young and seemingly just off the edge of boyhood. “Ah, eh, I have a message for you, Grey Warden.”

Alistair raises a brow, “A message, for me? Do I have a secret admirer?” He quipped, confusing the elf before him.

“Er, what? No, it’s from the Revered Mother, something about a request for the presence of a man named Edmund from the Circle of Magi?”

The blonde man gave out a groan, “And she needs a Grey Warden to deliver it? Specifically, one who nearly became a templar?”

Giving a shrug of his shoulders the redhead extended his hand out, offering Alistair the bit of parchment, “You’d have to talk to her about it.”

With a slight bow, the elf scurried off, leaving behind a slightly annoyed Alistair who quickly ate the rest of his breakfast before rising to find the damned Edmund fellow. He also said a short prayer that word of his near templarhood had not traveled too far.


End file.
